I Miss You
by Jean815
Summary: When you're a girl to whom the spoken word doesn't come easily, what else can you do but write what you feel?
1. Quinn's Confession

**Title: **Letters From Within  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Words:<strong> Approx 1150 in total  
><strong>Note: <strong>Nothing exactly canon, so no worries about spoilers.  
><strong>Two-shot written for Jessi's birthday. Happy birthday, girl! Love ya, by which I mean yes I do, so shut your filthy whore mouth. <strong>

* * *

><p>I miss you.<p>

We used to talk all the time. Admittedly, before that we didn't talk at all. Not properly, at any rate.

I miss your smile. I miss the way you laugh. I miss your unbridled passion. I miss your compassion. I miss you.

I apologized to you for all I'd done, and that was all it took. That and a lot of popcorn, bad movies, good movies, long conversations and the reveal of the technique to climbing a tree. That and the way I screamed when you slipped. You laughed at me, I remember. I scowled, because I had been afraid for you. Why had I been afraid for you?

I miss the way you would hold my hand and smile at my blush because I didn't know how to deal with physical contact, and you had figured that out. I miss the way you touched my cheek and told me I was beautiful. I miss the way you built me up to be more than that.

You didn't believe me at first, when I said you were more than your voice- of course you were more than your voice- but the look on your face said you didn't believe me. You smiled, but you were sad. I knew you well enough at that point to know. Everyone in school had only ever appreciated your voice, and though intellectually you knew you were more than that, emotionally, you were more broken than I was.

You didn't believe me when I said you were beautiful inside. You asked if I meant your voice box. I said no, that no voice box, no matter how well-oiled and maintained, could produce such a sound with a base that wasn't sound. You didn't understand. You weren't a cheerleader. Good for you.

I explained. Explaining things to you was always an interesting experience. You were always impatient to get to the end, to be able to understand. But you listened. I said that on a pyramid, the person at the very top wasn't the most important. If the people at the very bottom faltered, that was it. The entire structure would come crashing down.

Sometimes I think back and wonder whether I was talking about being a cheerleader, me being in high school, or making a metaphor for your voice box. But as you say, metaphors are important, and it worked, didn't it? You smiled again, bashfully, and I think that was the moment I realized I could fall in love with you.

You believed me, at any rate.

You were imperfect, but so was I. And I thought that together, we could've been perfect. Opposites are supposed to attract, are they not? We were more than opposites; we were opposing similarities. I was brash in a subtle way. You were brashly subtle. I was outwardly menacing. You were just a menace. You performed on stage. I performed every day of my life.

I told you all of this before I asked you whether you wanted to watch a movie with me on Friday night. We'd been doing Friday night movies for months, and before I asked you in a serious tone whether you wanted to watch 500 Days of Summer, it had never meant a thing. You understood though. I wasn't asking to watch a movie. I was asking for permission to ask you for more.

Turns out I'd misread the signs.

I miss you.

You never meant for me to develop feelings for you, you told me in your letter. Verbose as you are, you felt that it would be easier on both of us if I could work my way through your response in my own time. I always knew you were smart. You were right, too.

You said you were sorry. I thought to myself that I didn't want you sorry; I just wanted you. You said you wished for us to be able to still stay friends, because you didn't have very many, at any rate, though you understood if I didn't or couldn't handle it. I winced, because you're only being honest, but it's still an underhanded move. Of course I will be your friend, if you really will let me.

The problem is that all the time, I will want more. And in a far corner of your mind, you'll remember this. I will never be able to hold your hand or hug you in the same manner, because I will know I want more, and you will wonder whether I truly like you or whether I'm still trying.

It's hard, isn't it? You find a friend and you hope you'll be friends forever… and it turns out she wants you romantically. It does something to your self-worth as a person who is not worth it without any romantic benefits.

I should know.

And so I end my letter to you. I am, first and foremost, your friend. I would like to be that forever, no matter what. Yes, it is cheesy, and yes, I know you appreciate it.

I miss you. I cannot handle another day of not seeing you, or not knowing your voice spoken to me and me alone. I am selfish: it is undeniable. I want you to know me, because I think without you I would have sunk a long time ago. You don't know this; I am telling you.

So I miss you. I miss you because I am selfish and you make me a better person. I miss you because without you I am nothing. I miss you because of who you are and of who you make me want to be for you.

It is, of course, your choice. And if your choice is for us to never venture across the line of friendship, then allow me to be the first to bow to your wishes. You are to me, a friend first, and all else second. Singer, actress, dancer, performer, what have you. These are mere titles. You are a friend.

And I miss you.


	2. Rachel's Reply

I miss you too.

Words. All my life, I have been singing someone else's words.

Until you. You gave me words of my own to sing, and in that, I discovered myself.

You mean more to me than you will ever know, but I will attempt to tell you how much.

I was wrong. So very wrong. I don't want you as only a friend. We will always be, as you say, friends first, and whatever else second.

Another thing you helped me discover in myself was my desire for 'whatever else'.

Meet me in the quad at lunchtime? I have more words for you that you have released in me. It is for your ears and your ears alone, but I am, as you say, a performer, and performers need audiences, do they not?

Be my audience. I miss you too.


End file.
